


John to the Rescue

by IwillbeReichenbach



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Caring John, Doctor John Watson, First Aid, Gen, Hurt Sherlock, John to the Rescue, Major Character Injury, Moriarty loves playing with Sherlock, Moriarty to the Rescue, POV John Watson, Rape Aftermath, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Sherlock Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-03
Updated: 2018-07-03
Packaged: 2019-06-04 17:46:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15152405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IwillbeReichenbach/pseuds/IwillbeReichenbach
Summary: Sherlock is delivered back to Baker Street by Jim Moriarty.  John is very concerned about his friend.





	John to the Rescue

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Jim to the Rescue](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10979568) by [NightshadeDevil (DaisyFairy)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaisyFairy/pseuds/NightshadeDevil). 



> This forms a sequel to 'Jim to the Rescue' by NightshadeDevil (DaisyFairy), this will all make a lot more sense if you read her story first. I couldn't help but wonder how John and Sherlock would have muddled through the next few hours, so I shamelessly stole the original idea and ran with it. All mistakes, typos and failings are my own, but a huge thank you to Sandrina who helped with some improvements. 
> 
> The italicised lines are borrowed from the original story.
> 
> In my mind this is set between A Scandal in Belgravia and The Hounds of Baskerville (perhaps explaining why Sherlock is so easily agitated in the latter).
> 
> This story deals with the aftermath of a kidnap/torture and a rape situation, if this is triggering for you please do not read.

John sat in his chair, as if he had the right to call it his own, but it had been his from the first moment he had entered the flat. Objects sometimes had a way of claiming people. Right now, ownership of the chair was just a hollow distraction for John’s mind. A distraction from the worry for Sherlock was currently filling his mind. He had been missing for the better part of two days and three nights. Not just the, I’ve-popped-out-for-groceries-and-got-distracted ‘missing’, but the Mycroft-and-all-his-merry-men-can’t-find-you ‘missing’. So, John sat in his chair, head in hands gun tucked in his waistband and he waited for news. News that might never come. What if he is gone? Or dead?

John was jogged abruptly from his dark contemplations by what sounded like an army coming up the stairs. He jumped to his feet and turned to face the door just as a bunch of men entered their rooms, all of them with guns trained on him.

“Don’t move and this will go down real easy. Not one fucking move. You got it?” One of the men asked smoothly, never raising his voice. John vaguely noted how composed they all were. Military perhaps. Ex-military more likely if they were storming in here. As he nodded his agreeance to the terms, he wondered if this had something to do with Mycroft.

He barely had time to process that thought when Sherlock came into view. John’s first thoughts of joy and relief were quickly dispelled when he noted the damage to Sherlock’s face. Dark bruising, drying blood, and absolute despair greeted him from under wilted curls. He had never seen Sherlock look so… un-put-together. The real and pure shock, however, came in the shape of the man supporting Sherlock’s distressed form. John had been stunned by Moriarty before but never so much as when he gently helped Sherlock into the room.

“Get away from him! What do you want from us?” John shouted, spittle flying from his mouth in his fury. No matter how gently Moriarty was acting towards Sherlock, John did not trust any of this. 

Two of the guards moved threateningly towards John but Jim waved them away and rolled his eyes. John’s confusion increased by the second; he looked to Sherlock for any sign or clue as to what the hell was going on, but Sherlock just continued to stare at the floor.

“Really, if I wanted you dead you would be. If I wanted him, I would have him. You, little man, would be able to do nothing about it. What I have done is what you and his brother have failed to do, I have rescued him from the men who were holding him.” Jim said as if it was as clear as day. 

John gaped at this revelation, then narrowed his eyes, “Why would you do that? There must be something in it for you.”

Nodding in concession Jim agreed, “I get to keep playing with my favourite nemesis. All the rest of you are soooo BORING. I wasn’t going to let them ruin my game. Take care of him doctor; I’ll be in touch.”

Jim clicked his fingers and the guards filed out of the room and down the stairs instantly. John stood in shock as Jim slowly led Sherlock to his armchair and helped him as he sat down stiffly. It was now that John became really concerned for Sherlock’s physical state. It seemed that he was barely capable of standing on his own.

Jim leaned in and whispered something into Sherlock’s ear; John couldn’t make out a single word that was exchanged, despite being close by. As Jim stood he said loudly “I’ll be seeing you ‘round boys.”

Just as Jim got to the doorway, Sherlock lifted his head, cleared his throat and speaking for the first time in many days said as clearly as he could through his swollen lips “I’ll look forward to it.”

Jim gave him a smirk and wink and made his way out of the flat. John wondered how soon they would be seeing the spider again. He hoped it would be quite a while. 

John continued to stare at the flat door until he heard the street door close, and even then, he remained still for a few moments, unable to process what had just happened.

When he finally turned his back to the door, Sherlock sat, just as Moriarty had left him. Glaring down at the hearth rug. He looked up as if he could feel John’s gaze on him. His left eye was hardly able to open for the swelling and his face was bruised and bloody, but all John could see was pure misery.

“I’m going to take a shower.” Sherlock mumbled, not bothering to enunciate like he had done for Moriarty. He struggled to get to his feet, his knees threatening to buckle.

John was at his side in an instant, offering his arm for support, “Would you let me clean these wounds up first?” he asked softly. Sherlock just nodded and lurched towards the bathroom. John rushing to support him before he fell. 

A brief awkward dance saw them both into the well-lit bathroom; John used his foot to flick down the toilet seat lid and helped Sherlock sit down gingerly. It was clear to John that his friend was in considerable pain and he started to question whether a patch-up would do it, or whether a hospital trip was in order. No harm in assessing him first, he thought. Better to avoid a fuss if possible. Plus, Sherlock looked so damn tired. He wondered when he had slept last.

After retrieving the first aid kit, John set to work, first assessing for signs of concussion and then, once satisfied, moving onto cleaning the detective’s wounds. Sherlock sat dejected, looking into the middle distance, ignoring John’s medical efforts. Once the blood was wiped away, his face didn’t look quite as serious. Still, John thought, a couple of the wounds were deep. 

“Glue or stitches?” John asked.

For a moment John was sure that Sherlock hadn’t heard him or that perhaps he was just leaving it up to John to make the decision. Then, John realised, that Sherlock indicated the glue, in John’s right hand with the slightest nod. It was becoming clear that Sherlock was in a bad way. He was more than a little shocky, and the head injury was not serious enough to explain it, nor was there enough blood loss. Unless there were internal injuries. John huffed softly with concern as he glued up the wound above Sherlock’s left eye, holding the edges together until the glue set enough, and then moving onto the cut on the top of his head, gluing the edges together, then tying thin segments of hair into knots and dabbing a little glue on to hold the gaping wound closed. He knew Sherlock would be pissy when he realised he had glued up his hair, but he just didn’t care right now. 

“Shirt off.” John’s voice shattered the silence and caused Sherlock to flinch. Taking a rattling breath to compose himself, Sherlock fumbled with the lowest button. His hands shook, and it was clear that he had damage to several swollen and twisted fingers. Kneeling down in front of Sherlock, John tenderly grasped his right wrist. Noting the deep lacerations and the blood running towards the elbow. John turned the palm up delicately. Sherlock met his questioning look and nodded sharply.

“It will hurt?” John asked.

“Get on with it.” Sherlock snapped. Rolling his eyes. 

John tightened his grip on the wrist as he pulled expertly on Sherlock’s dislocated ring finger. It slotted back into place easily but not without eliciting a pained grunt from the miserable detective. Modern medicine had more moderate solutions but army training and a friend who avoided hospitals and lived a high-risk lifestyle kept the more ham-fisted approaches fresh.

“I’ll strap them after you’ve showered.” John said, taking it upon himself to take care of the buttoned shirt. Sherlock’s chest was a mass of bruises. As was his abdomen. John shook his head as he reached for his stethoscope. He warmed it between his hands for a moment as he took in the shivering and sorry looking man before him. He was now sure that there was more going on here than he truly understood. He pondered how to broach the subject as he listened to the detectives breathing.

“Deep breath, and again, again, once more.” John could faintly hear the ends of broken ribs grinding together with each deep breath, but his lungs sounded clear. 

“There is lots of abdominal bruising. Anything, in particular, that hurts in your guts?” John asked as he palpated Sherlock’s abdomen. He was unsure, even as he asked as to whether he would get an honest answer.

Sherlock shook his head, then clearly wished he hadn’t as he winced though the pain. “No, chest hurts most.”

“Kidneys?” John inquired after he helped Sherlock peel off his shirt and jacket as one. The bruising on his back was as bad or worse than that on his chest. Who were these jerks? John thought sadly as he turned away to return the stethoscope to the first aid kit.

“A little.”

“Ok, pee in the cup. I’ll check for blood.” John placed a sample cup on the sink but didn’t turn back to face Sherlock.

“What really happened out there?” He asked quietly.

“Jim rescued me.” Sherlock replied plainly, his voice rough but conveying no emotion.

“What could possibly be so bad that Moriarty would want to stop it?” John asked bitterly.

Sherlock snorted a breath out, “What do you bloody think?” It wasn’t a question. He didn’t look up.

John did though. Catching sight of his friend in the mirror above the sink. Sherlock looked utterly destroyed. It was then that John realised what had happened. It was suddenly so clear.

“You were raped.” John’s voice was weak.

“Great deduction, Watson.” Sherlock mocked blandly. John wondered if it was false bravado, shock or a shit attempt at coping with something absolutely awful.

“You need to go to the hospital, have a rape kit done. They can collect evidence against whoever did this to you.” John’s mind was racing, he spun to face Sherlock.

“No need.”

“Of course, there is a need. Even if you don’t bloody care, I want them caught, brought to justice.” John was angry now, furious! Then he realised the meaning of Sherlock’s last statement. “They’re all dead. Moriarty killed them.”

“Yep. Are we done here?” Sherlock asked, rising slowly with help from the towel rail that was beside the loo. It was clear to John that Sherlock wanted out of this conversation.

“Just a sec. Sit down. Please. I’ll take some bloods, best we get you tested for…… well, everything.” Sherlock sunk back down reluctantly.

“He didn’t finish. Jim stopped it.”

“That not the point, you still need the blood test.” While grateful for Moriarty’s interference he couldn’t bring himself to sing the man’s praises. He felt sick at the thought of what had happened. He felt sick that he hadn’t been there to stop it, nor had Mycroft, or Greg or bloody anybody except Jim Fucking Moriatry. If Sherlock hadn’t been utilising the loo right now there was every chance John would be chucking his guts up into it. 

“Arm out.”

John took the required bloods and placed them into pathology bags. He didn’t label them; he would consider an alias when he was thinking more clearly.

“I need to check you for erm, well, damage.” John stated. Sherlock hit him with a deadly cold stare.

“No,” and after a pause, looking back at his shoes “hasn’t there been enough humiliation?”

“Me or the hospital? Has to be done.” John hoped he would opt for the hospital. If only to have him under the care of an institution with all their resources.

Sherlock sighed sadly. John correctly took it as an affirmative. He reached for the other man’s laces and helped him out of his shoes. Then started as if to help him with his slacks. Sherlock knocked his hands away and threw him a filthy look, before he took care of the belt and fly himself. John turned away slightly, trying to provide a modicum of privacy and waited until the trousers were pooled on the floor and kicked into the pile of dumped clothing before turning back to help Sherlock to his feet. Leaving him leaning against the sink in nothing but his pants and sock, while he put on a fresh set of gloves. Both men would gladly forget the following inspection. It was all ‘spread your legs,’ ‘bend a little,’ ‘hold your cheeks apart.’ Despite John’s considerable training and experience his professional demeanour was slipping in the presence of the shame radiating from his friend. He had a feeling that this might be, if possible, worse for Sherlock than the assault.

He cleared his throat and stepped away from his patient. “You’ll be ok. No permanent damage done. Don’t forget to pee in the cup.” He said gruffly as he excused himself from the bathroom. Then pausing at the door. “Do you want some help off with you socks?”

Still leaning heavily on the sink, Sherlock shook his head; he was clearly frustrated and embarrassed. John left him, closing the door, he needed a minute to compose himself and perhaps to throw up.

John waited of the water to turn on, intending to head out to the kitchen, but once he could hear the water running he just couldn’t bring himself to step away. Eventually he just sunk down to the floor with is back against the wall and listened to the running water. He hoped that it was helping to sooth away some of the detective’s woes, but he knew that they couldn’t be quite so easily cured.

John wasn’t sure how long he had sat there, listening to the running water, hoping that he wouldn’t here the wet thump of his exhausted friend falling. He could tell that this time Sherlock had been pushed close to his limits. He wasn’t sure how long he had been awake for, but he knew that it must have been a considerable length of time. Sherlock seemed capable of staying awake longer than any man John had ever met. The army was full of tough guys that told tales of their conquests against slumber and, of course, they had all done endurance marches and night manoeuvres. They had all, at some point, paid the price for the lack of sleep. Irritability, declining concentration, looking like death and eventually the inability regulate their body temperature, leading to shivering like a leaf in the breeze. Sherlock, though, he could just go on and on. It was nothing for him to go 50 hours on the run and be as sharp as ever. John wondered again how long it had been since he had slept or even rested. He had never seen him look as dead on his feet as he did right now. Did he just suddenly hit the wall or had the exhaustion crept up on him? Or was it the trauma?

John was brought out of his musing by the sound of the front door opening. He was on his feet and readying himself for rounding the corner into the stairwell in seconds. His reached for his gun, which had been tucked into the waistband of his trousers since earlier that morning, in hopes that Greg or even Mycroft would call with a lead on Sherlock’s whereabouts. He hadn’t even had a chance to grab for it when Moriarty’s thugs had entered earlier. He wouldn’t be making the same mistake twice. It would be the first time that Moriarty came back for an encore performance. This time he would be ready.

He rounded the corner, gun up and pointed in the face of the approaching intruder.

“Bloody hell, Mycroft.” John cursed.

Mycroft was visibly taken aback by the gun shoved in his face. His surprise only lasted a moment.

John briefly considered lowering the gun but decided that he’d rather keep the upper hand. There was no way Sherlock wanted to deal with his brother right now.

“What was James Moriarty doing here and why was Sherlock with him?”

“Get out.” John demanded, stepping forward, gun still up, forcing Mycroft to retreat down a step.

“I have come to inquire as to the welfare of my brother. A little courtesy wouldn’t go amiss." Mycroft stated mildly.

“Now is not the time. Please leave.” John snarled with a menacing smile. 

Mycroft, clearly sensing the tension, retreated further. “Please tell Sherlock that I require a full report tomorrow. I really need to know what has occurred.”

“No, you ‘really’ don’t. He’ll tell you, if and when he is good and ready. Now, sod off.” John clicked off the safety as he stepped forward again.

Mycroft turned and headed down the stairs casually. With the air of someone who wasn’t being threatened at gun point. “Please look after him, Doctor Watson.”

John was completely disarmed by the request. It was easy to forget how much Mycroft cared for his little brother, and hard to be reminded. The gun fell to his side and he absently clicked on the safety, certain now that Mycroft knew more than he was letting on.

He cursed quietly as he turned back towards the bathroom. Hoping against hope that Sherlock hadn’t heard the exchange as he sunk back to the floor, gun left dangling limply between his knees. Its weight wasn’t as much comfort as it should have been.

John lifted his head when he heard the shower turn off, he was sure that the water would have been running cold by now. He was, however, unsure if he was needed. He wanted to respect Sherlock’s privacy, but he knew how stubborn he could be when it can to asking for help, so he just sat and waited, feeling useless. Moments later he heard a series of popping noises and a soft rustling. Definitely not the sound of someone falling in the shower but nevertheless odd.

“You ok in there?” John shouted at the closed door. He was now standing with his nose barely centimetres from the door. There was no response.

“Sherlock are you alright?” He pounded on the door a couple of times, but still got nothing in return.

“Jesus,” John muttered to himself before announcing, “I’m coming in,” as he barged through the door.

The sight that greeted him was near on pitiful. Sherlock was curled up sideways at the bottom of the tub, with his shins against the near side and his shoulder propped up on the far side. His head against the tiles. The shower curtain, which had been ripped from the railing, was draped over him. That explained the sound at least, John thought vaguely. The water that trickled towards the drain was tinged with blood, making it the colour of an over-ripe peach.

“Did you fall down or sit down?” John asked. He couldn’t help but wonder at the ability for the lanky man to fold himself up.

“Sat.”

“Good, erm, you alright?” He knew it was a dumb question, but he couldn’t think of anything else to say.

“Cold; can’t get warm.” Sherlock stuttered out. It was only then that John realised he was shivering slightly and ever so pale.

“Come on, let’s get you out of there.”

John grabbed Sherlock’s towel off the rail and draped it around his shoulders, then grabbed his own towel and passed it to Sherlock. They both fumbled to untangle the fallen shower curtain and to get him out of the tub and wrapped in the towels. When Sherlock finally stood hunched over, dripping and shivering on the bath mat, John gestured to the door that led to Sherlock’s room.

Sherlock nodded, clearly exhausted and shuffled towards the door. John stepped closer and allowed Sherlock to lean on his shoulder for support. Fatigue, cold and pain having taken their toll.

Through some kind of mutual instinct, it was decided that Sherlock should sit on the edge of the bed. John gently patted him dry and helped him into a fresh set of pajamas, eyes averted the whole time. Then he towelled his hair of delicately, mindful of the recently mended gash.

“I’ll grab my kit. You could do with a bit more patching up.” John said retreating towards the bath room.

In the brief moment he was gone, Sherlock had pulled back the covers and was trying to lie down, but was clearly struggling with the best way, the least painful way to go about it, the broken ribs and abdominal bruising working against him.

“Weak.” Sherlock muttered as he gave up and sat miserably.

“Let me help.” John dumped the medical kit on the floor, then snaked one arm under Sherlock’s arm pit and behind his shoulder, the other hand behind his neck and proceeded to lower him gently onto the mattress. It made for a slightly awkward embrace, but it was fairly effective.

“People really will talk.” Sherlock joked with a pale smile and a quiet laugh that sounded more like a huff.

John laughed too. Relieved that Sherlock had any capacity for humour. Still, he thought, he looked far from comfortable. John set to work strapping the broken fingers and then inspecting his abused wrists.

He looked questioningly at Sherlock, but his friend refused to meet his eye.

“How did they have you restrained?” John asked. “These lacerations are deep, they will need stitches.” 

Sherlock sighed heavily; John noted how uncomfortable he was discussing any of this. When he received no answer, he went for a more important line of questioning.

“How long were you there?”

“Hmmm,” Sherlock hummed, “I’m not exactly sure. About two days, I guess, three nights, judging by their routine.”

“Did you eat or drink anything?”

Sherlock indicated no with a long blink and twitch of his head.

John sighed and proceeded to set up a bag of saline to rehydrate his battered friend. Selecting a good vein was complicated, his hands were far too battered and there was too much scaring, from over use, in the crook of his elbow. Server dehydration also worked against his efforts to find a good vein. John eventually managed to find a decent vein on Sherlock’s forearm. 

“Sharp scratch.” He muttered out of habit. Sherlock just ignored him. John proceeded to add a little something to the drip to help with the pain; it would probably help him sleep too. Then he stitched, taped, and wrapped the injuries as best he could without the help of a fully equipped hospital. Once he was satisfied he pulled the blankets up over Sherlock’s shoulders. He was either asleep or doing a darn good job of pretending to be.  
John cleared up his things and checked the drip was at the correct rate before he realised that he didn’t have a single clue what to do next. So, he just sat down on the floor next to Sherlock’s bed, intending to wait for the fluids to finish, but, even once they were done, he couldn’t bring himself to leave Sherlock’s side. He just didn’t think it was far for him to wake up alone.

John checked regularly on Sherlock, who slept restlessly, but spent most of his time sat on the floor with his back against the side of the bed, waiting. For what he wasn’t sure; Sherlock to wake, Moriarty to return, the world to tilt on its axis? He didn’t know, but he sat there for the rest of the day and long into the night.

The was a pale morning light was coming in through the window when he woke, curled up of the floor, disorientated and uncomfortable. It did not, however, escape his notice that he had a blanket and pillow that had not been there when he had fallen asleep. John staggered to his feet, with his back screaming that it was too old for sleeping on the floor. As he spun around he found that Sherlock wasn’t in his bed. John could only wonder how he had managed to get himself up with his injuries. He’s one tough bastard, John thought, as he shuffled out to the kitchen.

“Where are you, Sherlock? You alright?” he called.

Sherlock was sitting in his usual chair, looking as composed as ever in his designer suit, less the jacket, but plus a luxurious dressing gown. Only the bruising to his face and the strapped fingers gave away the traumas of the day before. Even the heavy bandages on his wrists were hidden by the shirt cuffs. John felt especially scruffy, still in yesterday’s clothes.

Then he realised that Greg was sitting on the wooden chair in the middle of the room, looking for all the world like their next client. 

“Sleep well?” Sherlock asked, as John looked at his watch, it was just past seven.

“Not particularly.” John grumbled. Then it dawned on him, he had just emerged from Sherlock’s room to find a Detective Inspector of New Scotland Yard in their sitting room, it dawned on him why exactly Greg was smirking at him.

“I was just in the loo.” He lied, pointing back at the bathroom, convincing nobody. He figured he might as well soldier on. “New case?”

“Yeah. You’ll like this one. Warehouse, chock-full of dead thugs, all shot with high powered weapons. Signs of forced entry. There was a real scuffle. Weird thing is, though, it looks like there had been a hostage, of sorts. Chain hanging from the roof with a set of cuffs dangling. Quite a bit of blood, and going by the brute with his pants half down, sexual assault was involved. Looks like someone got really ruffed up. Thing is, no one was there. Victim couldn’t have shot them from where he was chained up. Most of ‘em were shot in the back, so who was it that shot them?”

“Do you know who the victim is, Gary?” Sherlock asked, John couldn’t help but notice how pale he suddenly looked 

“It’s Greg, and no, not a clue.”

“I don’t do mystery on both sides of a case. Sorry, you’ll just have to figure this one out for yourself.” Sherlock snapped.

“What? Really? I figured it’ald be right up your ally, Sherlock.” Greg got to his feet as he spoke. John stepped towards the door, the sooner that they could get Greg out of there, the better. As John opened the door, Greg paused and turned back to Sherlock. John was almost certain that he would pass out if he held his breath much longer.

“Are you sure you’re ok? That looks pretty nasty.” 

“Entirely sure, boxing match just got a little out of hand, as they are inclined to do when they are run by the itinerant. Did win a nice purse though. If you want to shut them down, you had better be at Bunhill Fields at dusk.” 

Greg hurried down the stairs, undoubtably to organise the arrest of an underground boxing ring run by vagrants. 

Sherlock smiled at John with a cheeky twinkle in his eye.

“Did you just send the Detective Inspector on a wild goose chase to a cemetery, at night?’

“To be fair, cemeteries are far more entertaining at night, and he will find an illegal fight club there, doubt he will catch them all though. Good thing too, they give me good odds. Still, at least it will keep Lestrade busy, don’t need him looking too closely into that warehouse thing.” John nodded absently.

“I understand. Wait, no I don’t. You’re a boxer?”

“Got to keep my skills up somehow, plus it’s a nice bit of pocket money.”

“If you win…”

“Oh, John. I always win. That’s why they pay me”

“Of course, you do.” John shook his head and turned for the kitchen. “Tea?”

“Please.”

John turned back.

“Are you ok?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Sherlock answered; he looked confused. John could tell it was an act.

“Is that how we are going to play this out? Ok, if that helps, but I want you to know that if you want to talk about it, that is ok too.” 

“I really don’t.” Sherlock answered, already sliding his laptop from the arm of the chair onto his lap. Clearly that was all he had to say on the matter, but John wondered how long it would be before the act would crumble. Or could the great Sherlock Holmes really just lock it up in that vast mind palace and ignore it. Not something like that, surely that wasn’t the kind of thing you can file under ‘ignore’.

John did the only thing he could for the moment, he shrugged and went to put the kettle on. Calling over his shoulder.

“Ok, but you will be taking your antibiotics.”


End file.
